The Case Files of Cable & Blount: Three Complete Novels

By Wolf DeVoon

Who is Chris Cable? — straight, tough, a little stupid, loves women, fights with men to retain his self respect and win as often as possible. That's why he carries a gun, a particularly nice gun, a SIG-Sauer 1911. When it's shot out of his hand, a crippling injury, Chris has to get by with a little PPK. Later in life, he'll be given a SIG P320, government standard issue, a rugged 9mm with no mechanical safety, just draw and shoot. He's military, on first name basis with national security people and LAPD. He earned battlefield promotion as a Marine Corps captain, saw relentless death and dismemberment, work that fighting men do. Half of his platoon were KIA, the other half scarred and crippled, including Chris, decorated twice for bravery. When a close comrade was severely wounded, an officer he liked and respected, Chris resigned his commission, spent a year at his friend's bedside, helped him through rehab. They were both finished with killing. Nightmare memories were bad enough.

What do ex-military people do? Law enforcement. Except that Chris had a hard time taking orders, following rules. After a couple years of getting yelled at and told to do nothing, Chris decides he'd rather be a private investigator, have gun will shoot. That succeeds for a while, but no one wants to hire him twice. He's dangerous, hard, emotionally absent. Girls shun him when he smiles. They know who he is, a lone wolf, doesn't take any shit. Of course there's a perfect female for Chris — a modern Nick and Nora Charles — except that Chris is armed and dangerous and well-connected, has friends and family in secret government service, career O.G.A. who don't tell Congress what they're doing, routinely misdirect Presidents and cabinet secretaries, collaborate with DIA, DHS and NSA, but never FBI. There's an open job offer in Langley, if he wants it, as a ruthless covert operator — urbane, sexy, Ivy League confident, unpredictable. Station chiefs complain that Cable did it again, went dark and failed to report as ordered, impossible to supervise.

Murder. Prison. Black Ops. And one of the greatest love stories ever told. "A master of sly observations, of the truths hidden in words... a big dose of literary fun, that even if played out in today's world, echoes to the time when men were men and writers weren't afraid to tell a story." (L. Baker) Three tense adventures by Wolf DeVoon, champion of defacto anarchy, individual action, and red hot sex, the passionate romance of a hard man and an intelligent woman. They risk life and limb in 'A Portrait of Valor', fight one of the most vicious serial killers in human history in 'The Tar Pit' mystery, and threaten the global financial system in 'Charity'. Wild, cinematic, told in blazingly realistic language, a trio of tales that celebrate love and courage under fire. Adult content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf DeVoon
• Release date: Oct 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370937523

Wolf DeVoon

Wolf DeVoon is the author of six novels, including three adventures starring Chris and Peachy, repeatedly challenged to risk their lives in 'A Portrait of Valor', then tasked to unravel a wave of increasingly grisly serial murders at a Hollywood studio in 'The Tar Pit', and finally at the vortex of a $3 billion cybercurrency and CIA black ops to stop it, in 'Charity.' The author is also known for anarcho-capitalist theory ('Laissez Faire Law', 2007, and 'Constitution of Government in Galt's Gulch', 2014), science fiction saga 'Mars Shall Thunder', and a much admired confession of folly and intransigence, 'First Feature: A Rake's Progress in Downtown Gomorrah'. His futuristic web serial 'The Good Walk Alone' has been published in paperback. Award-winning author L.B. Johnson observed that DeVoon's fictional hero Chris Cable is "a master of sly observations, of the truths hidden in words, not the least bit afraid to ask for that which defies policy and common sense... a big dose of literary fun, that even if played out in today's world, echoes to the time when men were men, and writers weren't afraid to tell stories." High praise indeed. In a former life, Wolf DeVoon was a film and television director. We all have to start somewhere.

Book preview

The Case Files

of Cable & Blount

Three Complete Novels by

Wolf DeVoon

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2017 by Wolf DeVoon

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced

or transmitted in any form or by any means

without written permission of the author.

Please do not share this ebook.

Available in paperback

ISBN 978-1365629426

ISBN 978-1365811890

ISBN 978-1976278396

I.

A Portrait of Valor

---

To Cass McMain

1. Love At First Sound

Distant echo of keys and footsteps faded. I was in a jail cell, sitting on the edge of a metal bunk with my head in my hands. I shot and killed a guy. I hated killing people. There was a giant lump on my cheek that was painful and bled, where I got whacked in the face. That's why I fought back.

His name was Ed Mooney, a big dumb Army vet who worked security for Spurls, had the hots for a fallen angel, Carly Dawn. One of those babes men go stupid for. Mooney took care of her when she was sick with dope. Carly said she had enough on Spurls to blow him away.

Except that Mooney was the one who got blown away, and I'm the moron who did it. Worst fucking thing I could have done. Alright, second worst. No one else could have stopped him.

Mooney had been fired, beaten up pretty good for threatening to call the DEA. He showed up loaded on pain pills, wanted to kill somebody, probably Clinton Spurls or his sidewinder Big John Corrigan, head bouncer at the nightclub Spurls owned, where I was staked out because my pal Nick Narcourt had to go to Reno.

Let that be a lesson to you, Cable. Never do favors for anyone, not even if you need the money.

It was supposed to be a simple job, guard Carly, see that her jealous ex didn't cause a ruckus in the parking lot. Carly arrived and parked no problem, went in with a crowd of loud people in crazy dresses and costumes, hipsters and goldilocks gangstas. Typical Hollywood midnight to dawn crowd that filled Spurls' neon-covered warehouse on Pico, laughing and waving to friends in a busy parking lot with valets for supersluts.

Mooney pulled in and stopped in the driveway, got honked at by a line of cars waiting to turn left from Pico into the VIP lane. If they didn't have a sticker on their windshield, a clumsy clod named Gertz — Mooney's replacement — would shoo them to a dark public lot two blocks away in a dangerous neighborhood that deterred sightseers from Iowa.

Mooney struggled out of his car, covered in head bandages and rib bandages. I saw him, walked in his direction, expecting trouble. Mooney reached for a shotgun.

I took a deep breath and shouted his name at him. He was the guy I was supposed to watch out for. He was the right size and drove the right kind of car. Didn't want to kill him, but I had my hand on my gun. No clean shot, people in cars, people everywhere.

The son of a bitch outfoxed me, walked up nice as pie, whipped the stock of a heavy over/under like it was a toothpick, knocked me down. I saw stars and fell, drew by reflex.

Mooney turned away. Women screamed.

I flopped back on the bunk to put ice on my face again. I hated killing people.

*** ** ***

Homicide boss Lt. Barry Mintz told the deputy to take my handcuffs off.

I rubbed my wrists like I always did. I think cops get a kick out of it, squeezing until the steel dented skin and hurt. Maybe they were a little easier with chicks. I sat down in a wood chair across the desk from Mintz and nodded thanks with big blue innocent eyes.

Shut up. Don't say a word. I don't want to hear it, Mintz brayed. His gray eyes drilled me with resentment. Barry Mintz could be a world class asshole when he felt like it. I leaned across his desk and picked up a glass of water, drank it dry, and put the glass back down where he had it, next to his cigarettes and ashtray, on top of a mess of papers and folders.

I grinned in amusement. Mintz did horrible things to paper.

You think it's funny? How about manslaughter or murder two? he yelled. I didn't reply. Barry Mintz scowled and blurt in frustration: Well?

You told me not to say anything.

He shoved his chair back from the desk, looked sick, lumbered to his feet. Mintz liked to remind me that he was taller than I was, heavier, tougher. "As of this minute, your license is suspended – permanently!" he boomed. He looked like he had indigestion. Barry had a habit of rubbing his gut when he was pissed off, a routine part of his job.

I acknowledged his sore stomach with a respectful nod.

The file has already gone to the Commission, he sneered. Why the hell don't you have a lawyer?

I shot the guy, called 911. What's a lawyer going to do?

Lt. Mintz yanked open a file drawer, grabbed my stuff in both hands, and threw it on the desk in front of me. The gun slid and knocked his glass ashtray with a pile of butts and ashes to the floor. I bent down, picked up the empty ashtray and put it on the edge of his scrambled pile of documents that were probably two or three weeks thick.

I sighed and emptied a manila money envelope, stuck the $7.22 in a pants pocket, put my wallet away in my inside right jacket pocket where I could get it out and show a private star without using my gun hand. The wallet's weight told me I still had it.

Nice to get my gun back. I slid the action and nothing happened. Popped the clip. Big surprise, it was empty.

Ballistics, Mintz muttered.

Had to fire six times for comparison? I griped, while I pocketed keys and cellphone.

I stood up, took off my jacket, shrugged into the flimsy shoulder rig and put my gun away. Half a box of ammo at the office would be enough to get by for a while. Last thing I needed was to waste it on a range. Real targets don't hang from a wire. They move like lightning and shoot first or threaten to.

Lt. Mintz lighted a cigarette and scowled at me while I put my jacket on, straightened the collar and sleeves, a nice light wool sport coat that I bought new a week ago, now torn and filthy.

Next time you shoot someone, you're going down for it, he growled. Straight from the D.A. You used up whatever you think he owes you.

Against the law to smoke in here, Lieutenant, I smiled.

Mintz tapped his fingers on the desk, then tossed his cigarette into the empty water glass. An oval spiral of smoke began to fill the clear cylinder. It was quite pretty, made me smile better. Light gray smoke clung to one side and twisted into little waterfalls.

My life isn't tough enough as it is, Mintz barked angrily, I gotta have assholes like you crackin' jokes. Go on, beat it! Stay away from Spurls and the girl, unless you want a free trip to the morgue — where you prob'bly belong!

*** ** ***

I'm not entirely certain you handled it well, Christopher.

Aw, shut up, I groused.

Nick Narcourt always looked like a comfortable gentleman playboy, wore the finest suits and tailored shirts, perfectly at ease behind the steering wheel of a Bentley. More than once I wanted to choke him.

He shook his head with elder sobriety. I told you Mooney was dangerous.

Right. I got stupid at the wrong moment, okay? I fucked up. Should have engaged hand to hand.

Nicky sighed. No one's perfect. We both knew it.

Two fellows from the FBI came to visit, Nick reported, as he swung the car in a County lot where my car was stuck somewhere in the back. I had a piece of paper to claim it, probably take hours. Frowned for real and Nick saw it.

He tried to cheer me up with a laugh. I gave you a five-star pat on the back, told them about your service record, Purple Heart, Silver Star, trusted colleague and a credit to the community.

Jesus Christ in a Ferrari, just what I needed. What case? — involving who?

Nicky shrugged. Didn't say, they never do. Who you were and why you were at the nightclub instead of me, which by the way, I'm happy I wasn't.

He handed me $500, a day's pay. Swell. I could afford to eat, after I stood in line, got it running and pried my car out of a crowded zoo. Most of the impounds had been there for months, everything covered in Valley soot, worst possible place to store a car.

Not that my car was changed much by it. A piece of junk that needed work when I could afford it, which was never. It used oil but didn't smoke, thankfully. More power on the road was a distant goal. And that made me question what the hell I was doing.

I was two months behind in my office rent, a month behind at the apartment. My last case put a couple hucksters away with no recovery of swindled funds, so my cut was zero. I didn't know where my next job was coming from, and I didn't like the publicity about killing Mooney. Didn't want the kind of clients that hire gunmen.

I drove to a gas station, filled up on a credit card that maybe had a hundred bucks left under limit, and went through the quicky carwash so I could see where I was going.

Los Angeles is a funny place to drive, a strange place to work as a private eye. You'd think it might be pleasant occasionally. Girls at the beach. Movie stars in nice restaurants. Studios who need things hushed up and settled. Divorce galore with hundreds of millions to fight for, depending on the product of surveillance. Nicky practically specialized in it.

Still disappointed, a decade later, that I couldn't stay with the D.A.'s office, had to go private instead of losing my mind. I'd dive into a case, get all the evidence I needed for an indictment, and be told to do something else. Plenty of work, few convictions. No chance of promotion or any other interesting path in law enforcement. Certainly didn't want to work with Mintz again, even though it was his idea that I should come to Los Angeles, look around and see if I liked it well enough to be sworn in. The row of palm trees on Highland was nice. Rents were okay on the salary I'd get. My pal Nick Narcourt was a native. Police work sounded fine, a whole lot less stressful than combat.

Phooey. A lot of people came to L.A., saw the fun stuff and figured it's a place to kick back and relax, unless you're a detective, official or otherwise. Then it's murder and theft and complicated strong arm extortion stuff that has to be resolved without adding to the body count. I tried to talk people down. Sometimes it worked.

More often than not I made enemies whether I wanted to or not. My clients were scared, ready to spend thousands to hire me, to make something bad go away. Nothing ever goes away in Los Angeles. All I did was build a mountain of mugs who hated me for one thing or another, like screwing up a comfortable racket, springing a girl who didn't want to be beat up again, or exonerating some nitwit who got set up and framed. Lawyers called me because I had a reputation for being a little crazy. I'd try anything for a fat enough retainer and expenses.

The last couple years were lean pickings, almost nothing to do, because I couldn't work undercover. People knew who I was on both sides of the law. That was the problem in a nutshell: Chris Cable is recognizable. Maybe wigs and false noses like Sherlock Holmes, I snorted, thinking of gags that might fool a ten-year-old.

At age 38, there was plenty else to think about. I spent spare hundreds at bars in nice dinner joints and nightclubs, trying to be nice, look nice, find someone to talk to and maybe get tender enough to lay down together. It was an old idea that had diminishing returns. I became quiet, less playful, emotionally absent. Not fun to be with.

A quick pit stop at the office to reload, and then I'd go home, get my kid jacket for the evening, take this beautiful new wool to the cleaners and ask Habib to try to fix the shoulder rip.

Crap. I'll have to dig out the herringbone jacket I thought I retired.

I parked my Nissan in the lot and went in the back door of the Treloar Building that faced Hollywood and Highland. You haven't lived until you've rented one of the identical boxes that lined the third floor, little washroom down the hall. I knew the office signs by heart. Professor E. Hopgash. Triumphant International Films. Broan Music. Tripper Home Loans. None of the doors ever opened or closed, except I heard somebody moving desks and junk farther down the corridor two weeks ago, a new tenant, M. X. Blount, CPA.

What the heck?

There was a medium hardshell American Tourister suitcase directly in front of my office door. I approached it slowly and peeked with one eye against the wall. There was a clear strip of floor between the suitcase and my office door, so I put my key in quietly and carefully stepped over whatever it was. The Bailey boys were sore enough to plant a bomb. Each morning I checked under my car with a little telescoping mirror I kept in the console. I told myself they weren't sharp enough to trigger anything with a car door.

So, a suitcase bomb maybe. I thought about calling 911 and declined. The last thing I needed was more publicity, the whole fucking building evacuated and TV coverage. Four television stations were in walking distance. Highland and the Boulevard closed during rush hour because I got the heebie jeebies about unattended luggage? God.

I resolved to do what old school sappers would do, deal with it. I went to the closet and got my Dremel motor and a drill index, fiber optic lamp and eyepiece, ballistic eye protection from the shooting range, gloves, loupe — everything in a letter tray. I took off my jacket and slipped the bulletproof vest over my gun, pulled a velcro strap tight, and shook my head in disgust. Still lose a leg and most of my face if it goes off.

I drilled a hole and stuck the fiber rig in and manipulated it to see a lot of pockets and loops, and then I heard something that I didn't know existed, the most electrifying thing I'd ever heard, the stride of a woman in high heels, unmistakably, whispering with each interesting step, totally unlike the chicks who clomped or tapped. A slinky pussycat who whispered when she walked.

I lost awareness of what I was doing when I looked up, from her toes to her nose. What a wonderful woman, trim black skirt and thin white top that had a lot to see. Pretty nose, thick red gold hair, big eyes alert to the world. Businesslike curiosity.

I remembered the bomb. Go away! Beat it, Peachy. Go pull a fire alarm or something. Scram!

She did some kind of physical miracle and was crouched at my side near enough to smell a perfume scent that was far away and made men gallop. My name isn't Peachy, she said with an invisible wink, It's—

I couldn't shout at her this close, so I interrupted as a friend. Please go away. I'm not totally sure what this is.

She extended the whole lovely apparatus of thighs, smooth round knees, ankles to die for, and inspected the suitcase, briefly leaned on the doorframe of my office door and extended a leg for balance. Her skirt brushed my face and I was sunk.

Peachy shrank back to a crouch by magic and looked me in the eye.

It's a suitcase, she confided with a smile. Wanted to bathe in her smile a hundred years and a thousand nights. I put my stuff away in the letter tray, just to have something to do, to assert that I still had a brain. When I stood up, she rose to stand with me.

I looked down at the suitcase and picked it up by the handle. The fiberscope said it was empty, and sure enough, it felt light as a feather. I smiled at the girl I wanted and took the suitcase into my office, set it down on my desk and popped the latches. Empty.

Peachy came in like she owned the joint and peered into the suitcase lining, lifted each elastic fabric section carefully with lovely long fingers, subtle nailpolish, no wedding ring. I took off my vest and threw it on a chair, put on my wrecked wool jacket.

Still poking in nooks and crannies, without looking at me, she asked: Do you always carry a gun?

Yes.

It said Cable Investigations on your door, but I didn't know — she looked up and said it simply — that men like you existed. I mean in reality. Real detectives. I found a data card, she added, indicating the little black square thing in her hand that appeared a few inches from my chest, held up for inspection. She moved so fluidly that I didn't actually see it happen. I wanted to see her walk again at a distance.

Ahem, she prompted. A 16-gig Apple data card, mister detective.

Not a computer guy. I have other skills.

Her very lovely lips parted slightly and her eyes widened, as if I had scored a physical response. I was a Neanderthal who couldn't work a spreadsheet or type. I dictated into an old microcassette. It got transcribed by Burger's secretary and filed.

Peachy said she had a Mac at home and would be right back, just wanted to get her jacket and purse. I put the data thingee in my pocket, kicked the tray of tools inside and watched her walk, mesmerized. Oh, jeez. What was her name? Marina? Megan?

She drove an old, well kept Beamer, a full-size car that was comfortable, big enough for me to steal a glance occasionally and see Peachy do things with the traffic and get us through Hollywood near enough to rush hour to present problems.

She drove well. Accurate and unafraid. I began to wonder about us. Long time since I saw a physically competent woman up close, late 30s maybe, a woman with curves who was direct, proud of herself, walked as quietly as a cat. I talked to see if I still could.

What do you do as a CPA, keep track of invoices and taxes?

I do forensic audits for insurance companies and private equity. I could use an investigator, unless you're too busy to take more work.

I folded my arms and considered if there was a God. There might be.

She was polite. How did you get the cut on your cheek?

I made a mistake in judgment, I said, looking away at the cross traffic. We were waiting for the light at Fairfax. I tried not to frown, caught myself slipping into asshole Jarhead, cracked my jaw a couple times left and right, so it didn't get stuck clenched.

I'm sorry. None of my business, she said simply. I liked this woman enormously and didn't want to ruin it.

It's okay. I thought it was almost healed. Nine days ago.

She drew down some kind of mental curtain, concentrated on driving a while, then continued as if nothing had happened. You'll have a scar there, she said casually.

I have others.

She swallowed and parted her mouth, and I got the idea she was panting, but she turned into a driveway, slid smartly into a parking space, looked at me briefly and got out of her car. I opened the passenger door. I didn't remember much else for a while.

I was in some new kind of realm, not a holiday, it was a new job, filling in fun years of young adulthood that I never had, because I was in OCS learning to toughen up.

News flash: I wasn't tired or used up. I was young and happy, and I felt the weight of the Sig under my arm in a new way that had something to do with happiness, too.

Peachy did it. And she did it deliberately.

I burst into loud laughter suddenly, as she unlocked her apartment door.

She turned and smiled, saw I was enjoying myself. What's funny?

I gave her my best smile with happy eyes, not something I often did — only if I saw something exceptionally beautiful, like the way smoke curled in Barry's water glass. Now the stakes were a lot higher, maybe the rest of my life, maybe hers.

You and me, I explained gaily. A chemistry experiment that went wrong. I forgot to reload my gun at the office, or to lift prints from the handle. Good joke on me.

She noted something mentally, and she casually entered her apartment, tossed her purse in a familiar spot, checked something off a list of secret calculations.

I felt like I could read her mind. I made a decision to try hypnosis on her when the time came. She and I weren't using words. I handed her the data card, she put it in the side of a big Apple screen, files names flew by, and she opened the first document.

I put my hand on her shoulder. Scroll down a little, I said quietly.

Nothing happened. I like sex, she said quietly.

So do I. Scroll down a little, Peachy ... stop!

I read what I saw. She asked: What can I call you?

Chris I replied automatically, not happy with what I saw on screen. I took a deep breath and dug the phone out of my pocket. You can turn that off, I told Peachy, looked at the buttons and punched a shortcut for Nick Narcourt.

His number rang several times as I moved to the little patio and slid the door open, stood outside to feel the city traffic and do some thinking. Now what? Nick answered because the ringtone told him it was me. Did you shoot somebody else today? Or did you run out of money? I'd believe either or both, he laughed.

Remember about a girl spilling beans? I asked in shorthand.

What about it?

I have the beans. Delivered to my office.

Oh, he said heavily.

Let's get together tomorrow, early.

Alright. Try to keep a low profile for a change until I see you.

I nodded as I disconnected the call. I had no desire to go anywhere else. I turned to see that Peachy had left the room. I felt a little disappointed. I wanted to take off my jacket, get the gun and straps off my shoulders. I slid the patio door shut, paced a little.

Well, why not? All she could do is tell me to leave, and I could put everything back on. There was a brown leather chair about the right size. I tossed my torn jacket over the back, let the weight of my gun pull the straps into a pile of spaghetti on the chair seat.

She didn't want to speak, didn't want to come back into the big living room, stood with her butt against the kitchen island, hands at her sides flat on the cabinet. Her nose was tilted slightly upward, proudly, her eyes locked with mine. She was barefoot, in an almost invisible short black silk nightie. Her unsupported breasts were beautiful. Round and full, the way a woman should be. Well-loved erect nipples made me shut my eyes.

I thought of a dozen things that I could do, but only one seemed right. I walked to her casually, and spoke to her when we were a few inches apart, facing one another with eyes that said plenty without speaking. But I wanted to mark the moment and say it.

I've looked my entire life for someone like you, I said simply. It was true.

A little tear welled up in her right eye. She nodded in agreement. So we were stuck now. I slid my hands to embrace both sides of her ribcage to feel the animal she was, held her as her ribs expanded and contracted and shuddered with a whole body thrill.

It was easy to hold her skull gently, my fingers wrapped left and right under her ears. I could have held her aloft and she sensed it, arched on tiptoe as I lifted gently, tipped her head, and kissed her. Her mouth melted, opened, couldn't wait, and she stuck her tongue fully in my mouth, practically down my throat. It took a long time for anything else to happen and then she panted and drooled, wrapped her lovely hands on my waist, both sides, slipped her fingers into my belt and pulled me closer, sad eyes locked with mine.

Neither of us were happy now, because it meant so much to us. I gently turned and pushed, bullied her down the hall, threw her on the bed and took off my shirt.

She had already stripped the bedding in a pile at the foot of her nice king bed. The white fitted sheet was like a canvas that some genius cut his throat for, sacrificed his life in search of one sublime creation, the figure of a golden treasure, painted tenderly with the perfectly sculpted bones of her long shins visible under soft firm flesh, just enough to round it into breathtaking glory. Her thighs were firm, long, strong; her hips shapely and restless; arms and elbows eager to move from her sides, red gold hair tousled, tits slowly lifting and parting as she breathed through slightly flared nostrils, laying on her back.

She watched as I undressed.

Her eyes were wet, and they sparkled helplessly under full hypnosis. I held her with a paw on her breastbone, reached down, took control of her silky shins and guided her to lift and splay her legs, relax her thighs and spread wide open, pretty feet pointed without effort. No classier, more lovely female on earth. Beautiful beyond description.

She had not been with many men, she confessed. A few women, no one special.

Not a virgin, but near enough. As wet as she was, it was natural to spread wider, my hands gently guiding and pinning her thighs back so her hips rotated fully.

And that was enough of that. I withdrew and guided her to her knees, bare wet bottom high and fuckable.

She relaxed her shoulders, laid her cheek on the bed, braced with her hands and gave up trying to stay quiet as I mounted her and rammed big time, virgin or not.

The hottest word you can hear a woman say is Oh! repeatedly.

Around 10 p.m., we agreed that we were both being dodos, needed to put on robes or something and eat dinner. I called Jack and asked him to send up whatever was ready on the grill, a couple blocks away on the Strip. We had ribs and salad in ten minutes, nice dining table set with china, light Chateau Neuf du Pape. When I asked what her name was, full of embarrassment, she laughed happily over barbeque sauce on both hands and a rib snatched from the serving dish that she substituted for Jack's styrofoam.

Some detective!—it's Peachy. I worked hard for it and I'm keeping it.

2. Boss Spurls

I deducted a business card from her purse while she was waking up, washing her lovely face. Mary Xenia Blount, Forensic Auditor, CPA, Ph.D., address in Palo Alto. Her office in the Treloar Building was probably for a long-term project in L.A., long enough to justify renting an apartment, six months or more. Maybe a year. Then what?

I was in serious trouble with this woman. My line of work disqualified me from life insurance. Gave up a long time ago, having a retirement plan. I didn't want to change what we had, let her hire me, pay me. Shit, who's kidding who? That wasn't the problem.

She had no business falling in love with me, or me with her.

It was bound to happen, I'd get in a jam and go ballistic. My arms and legs were lined with scars from fighting in close quarters, using whatever I could lay my hands on. Bigger swathes of scar tissue looked like deformities, no different than any other combat vet. I killed people when I had to, then and now. Not good husband material.

I called a cab, gave Peachy's address.

Told her to stay home, don't open the apartment door for strangers.

*** ** ***

Nick was sitting in his car in the Treloar lot. I paid the cab and walked over. He was listening to opera, saw me, touched a button to lower his sparkling clean car window, and wrinkled his nose: Don't you own any other clothes? Same shirt you had on yesterday.

I waved at him to follow. I had a spare shirt in my office, and I didn't want to talk in public. The parking lot wasn't exactly private, plenty of other people waltzing in and out of cars on a weekday morning. You never know who might be who. Nick and I walked to the elevator. I held the door for two girls who ignored us. They pushed the button for 6. Nicky grinned at them, Mr. Wonderful in a new tweed suit and tan wingtips.

We marched in tandem a few paces down the 3rd floor corridor and I saw that my office door was open. It had been kicked in, door jamb splintered by the deadbolt.

Nick let me explore the wreckage by myself, followed me to see the entire office and closet ransacked, stuff littered on the floor. I didn't keep case files here for that reason. My lawyer had everything in a fireproof file cabinet.

Bad juju, Nick said acidly, kicking a shattered picture frame.

I picked up the half-empty box of ammo that split open, reloaded my gun. Guess what's not here, I growled. A pink American Tourister suitcase with loops for shoes and make-up bags and underwear and shit, the kind of bag a girl would have.

Nick frowned. Carly Dawn disappeared yesterday I'm told.

Airport departure?

He shook his head no. I snapped the loaded magazine in my gun, put it under my arm. Okay, here's the situation. There was a data card in the suitcase that somebody had to retrieve and couldn't, because I've got it somewhere else, in safe hands I think.

What's on the data card?

Everything. Spurls' two sets of accounts, legit and black. It names names.

Nick backed up a couple paces, and he glanced down the hallway. I followed him, yanked my office door as shut as anybody could shut it with a broken frame. I'd have to talk to Tim Treloar, give him whatever money I had left.

The phone rang in my pocket while Nick and I stood there, looking like chumps. I said hello. It was Corrigan, said I was wanted at the Spurls place in Thousand Oaks, and he hung up without telling me where it was, like detectives are supposed to know everything without being told.

Nick knew the address and directions to get there, but I had to drag it out of him.

Don't go, Chris, he frowned with seriousness. Not without back-up.

I shook my head and asked Nick to do something else, find Carly Dawn if he could, before Spurls or one of his henchmen did. Narcourt huffed and lectured and finally agreed to do it. I outranked him by a couple stripes, made it an order to shut him up. We went our separate ways in the parking lot.

I unlocked my car, got out my little mirror on a stick and did the usual inspection. Popped the hood and shut it again. Then the usual hoopla of getting it started and running smooth enough to drive. I needed Sammy to change the plug in a weak cylinder again. It could wait. Everything could wait, like talking to Treloar about the broken door. Lawyers had a favorite phrase they put in contracts: Time is of the essence.

What I knew about Carly Dawn beside her name and face was zero. There was a dented pack of cigarettes in the console and I was nervous enough to have one, because they helped me think. It was unlikely that Carly put the suitcase in front of my office door yesterday, if she was on the run, so there was an accomplice. Maybe a girlfriend. I phoned Nick to ask what he knew about her.

I should have guessed. Carly's father was Emmett Sturt, the attorney whose name was at the top of Spurls' spreadsheet of payola. I took the exit for Topanga and turned around, went back to the 405 and headed for Wilshire.

Such a nice day. Sunny and cool, my window down at a traffic light.

What a wonderful gift, a wonderful lady I called Peachy. Probably fuck up her life and wreck whatever happiness we had or might have. Not fun to contemplate. I wondered whether I could quit, find a job somewhere in Northern California. There was nothing to hold me here. A wrecked office, no client, an old car that ran when it felt like it and used oil. I glanced at the gauge. Low pressure. I needed to add another quart again, stop at my apartment and put on a fresh shirt and tie, take this wool jacket to Habib when I got back from Thousand Oaks.

Sturt's office was locked. No one in the corridor, so I got a pick out of my wallet and popped it open. The lights were on in his office. Nothing unusual, nothing on his desk. I felt like I was wasting time. Maybe he was at breakfast. Went to visit someone. Could be back in five minutes — or never. If his daughter was on the lam, maybe Sturt was too.

Then I realized his suit jacket was a clue, draped on the back of his swivel chair. It was cool, been here long enough to suggest more than a little trip to the bank. And he wouldn't go anywhere without taking his wallet. It was in an inside pocket. Sturt had been snatched. I looked at the office carpet more carefully.

There were some deep impressions with boot heels big enough to make me guess that Corrigan had been here. He was called Big John for a reason. There was a circle of struggle. The reception desk was slightly off its carpet dents where it normally lived. Sturt's appointment book had names written for today. I snapped it shut and took it.

Not a nice scene. No secretary. Lights on all night. Big John paid him a visit. Sturt might be floating in the ocean or dumped offshore with something heavy tied to his feet. He might be at Spurls' fancy mansion in Thousand Oaks tied to a chair or stuffed in a closet.

I hesitated when I put my hand on the car door. It would be so easy to quit, go home and change clothes, do something normal. I thought about it as I got back on the freeway. Peachy fell for me because I was a tough guy. Not overly bright but I didn't turn tail when shit came in spades. My shoulders fell and my hands slipped to the bottom of the steering wheel. Mary Xenia Blount, a one night stand. Christ. There had to be a way out for us. And she had the data chip. Not good. Probably did her thing as a CPA, knew more about Spurls than I did. I dug her business card out of my pocket and threw it out the window. I was a moron, too stupid to grab the little black data chip and make sure she erased whatever she had on her computer. Shook my head in dismay.

I was way off my game, because I had a trainwreck, fell for her. The air I breathed was different. My face felt different. I liked being alive. The car drove itself.

I saw it when I left Sturt's office building, hanging back in traffic, a black Suburban. If the FBI wanted to follow me to Spurls' place that was fine with me. Narcourt said I needed backup, and they were as good as anyone, better than local LEOs raking in off-duty money to turn a blind eye, especially the plainclothes assholes who worked vice.

Sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for. Last time a girl got close to me, it didn't turn out well. And this time it was worse. I had crazy fantasies about a little white house in Encino, a nice car in the driveway, kissing my wife in the morning on my way to work, something simple like guarding an office building. She'd be in flats, a white apron over her sun dress, smiling as she waved goodbye, a basket of apples to make a pie.

Yeah, right. The other girl thought she was in love, too. It lasted two weeks. Where are you going? When are you coming back?

Today, I'm going to twist the nuts of a crime boss, see if he screams. I'll probably end up doing most of the screaming. Bad time to be in love with me, Mary. Not as good as you think I am. Not half as good.

The black Suburban was right behind me at the gate to Spurls' mansion. We both got waved through, and they parked in the circular drive near the front door, waited for me, two big silent agents in black suits and black sunglasses who followed me to the portico. Ornate cut glass panels splintered the image of a petite, expressionless houseboy who came to open the door.

Mithter Thpurlth ith ethpecting you, he lisped. Follow me, pleath. I took a couple steps and glanced back at the men in black. One of them shut the door, and they stood there like beefy cigar store indians, blocking the way out. If you're rich enough you can buy anything, I fumed angrily.

Thith way, pleath, Mithter Cable, the little houseboy prompted from an expanse of polished tile and twin staircases. I followed him to a carpeted hallway, jaw locked, my nose pumping oxygen. I exhaled, tried to relax and let it go. I could shoot my way out if it came to that. Getting mad wouldn't make it any easier. I shrugged my shoulders and cracked my neck a couple times. Wear it like a loose cloak.

Halfway down the hall, a door opened and Big John Corrigan eyed me like I was a piece of shit. He had a folder in his hand, waited for us to walk past him.

I smiled and indulged a little gallows humor. Lemme guess, the butler?

Corrigan's eyes flamed.

Thith way, thir, the houseboy scolded.

Just a second, Gonzo. I'm allergic to thugs, I said, expecting a fight.

Big John chewed his teeth and snorted disdain. Bust off, punk, he snarled. I got better things to do than screw with you. He walked away, flipped open the folder, studied something. I watched him clomp down the corridor and disappear in another door.

Thith way, thir, the little fruit bitched at me again. I followed him to a sunlit, nicely furnished library. Since when do big gorillas do paperwork? I asked.

"Would you care for a drink, thir, while you